Liquid Luck, a Drink of Intuition for those without
by DanDanTheWritingFan
Summary: Twenty-three year old Harry takes Liquid Luck and stuff happens. Like becoming Xanxus' Cloud Guardian, among other things. One shot for now - might be more depending on popularity and urge to write. Possible Drabbles?


**Title: Liquid Luck, a Drink of Intuition for those without.**  
 **Summary:** Twenty-three year old Harry takes Liquid Luck, and stuff happens. Like becoming Xanxus Cloud Guardian, among other things. One shot for now - might be more depending on popularity and urge to write. Possible Drabbles?  
 **Disclaimer:** Neither Harry Potter nor Katekyo Hitman Reborn are mine.  
 **Warnings: Swearing. Mentions of sex. Gender swaps**. **Liquid Luck induced randomness.**  
 **AN:** So this kinda happened. I don't know. I was bored and decided to try and write a possible one shot in an hour... I created this. Like five minutes ago. I don't even know. I found it amusing.

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 **Liquid Luck, a Drink of Intuition for those without.**

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When Harry looks back on it, he blames it on the Liquid Luck.

Seriously.

Everything that happened from that day onwards, every backflip his life tuck from that single moment, every axis his personal earth jumped off of, was all due to that single small four-hour gulp he had that day in May.

He supposes, in all honesty, that he could also possibly blame it on Ginny, his ex-girlfriend - or maybe, perhaps, even blame it on himself. But then, he wouldn't do that. Not really, anyway. Not anymore. Admittedly, mainly because his self-hired therapist would hit him with a goblin made hammer if he did and then round it up with a good hex or two, to have it sink in.

 _It doesn't make it all your fault, Harry, just because you say no to something, and the long term consequence of your choice negatively effect other people._

She always says that to him. Usually when she's just told someone "no" and she has to call him and the other Auror's to get them off her property, else she do it herself and get arrested for un-due force again.

But even so, he admits - now - that the advice is sound, regardless. Even if has taken him three years since she began saying it for him to think so.

Actually, maybe he should just blame it on her and her advice instead? Everyone else, he knows, probably will.

How else would anyone explain it otherwise, after all? How Harry Potter, the very male British Magical Saviour, became a very female member of the "Varia", based in Italy.

It's that old Lyra Zabini infleunce, they'd say.

But it really honestly wasn't.

It was all the Liquid Luck.

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As it is, he downs it in one go, and suddenly all his problems don't seem like problems anymore.

Ginny's echoing scream that she wants to break up with him, because he doesn't want to quit his job and she can't take the worry anymore? Barely an issue.

So what that he had only said that firm no because his job is the only thing he has these days that is completely and firmly his? So what if his girlfriend of seven years stormed out and left him high and dry, after trying to kick him out of his own house first? Who cares?

Not him, that's for sure, he thinks. He has more important things to do now.

Like following that dodgy looking man, that appears before him, for five solid minutes. And if, after he does, it leads him to an illegal Port Key, which inturn takes him immediately to Italy, then what the heck?

He's always wanted to go there, travel the world and all that. And now is as good a time as any, his head says.

The man, naturally for Harry really, doesn't agree at all, but then, that doesn't really matter either.

He manages to dodge the four hexes aimed at his head, along with the two yellow fire balls - which, by the way, fucking cool - that appear in the guys hands with extreme ease, and even accidentally knocks him out to boot, all within seconds.

Perfect, he thinks, when he drops to the floor. What a Lucky ending.

He sighs interetedly and strides onwards, having absolutely no clue where he's going, but following his feet anyway.

It's night time here, his brain points out, and Harry agrees that the night life would be quite interesting to see. He barely sees anything but his house, his work cubical and the side streets where he chases magical criminals down these days, after all.

A club would be an excellent change.

If only he had a way to hide his identity from the masses, though...

"Hey mate, do you still have that potion?" George's timely voice sounds from his pocket. "I really need it..." He happily ignores the rest.

Well, the Luck strikes again, reckons Harry. He _does_ still have that prototype.

"Thanks George!" He says aloud, and ends the accidentally answered mirror call, before he pulls said potion from his other pocket and downs the lot.

He sneezes and somehow knocks himself out.

Another lucky occurence, as the first four sucessful tests were rumoured to hurt like being caught in a raging feind fire, whilst being attacked with a couple of crucios.

"Huh." He says when he wakes and near instantly finds a window to use as a mirror.

The changes are obvious and brilliant, if awkward because he looks more like his mother now than his father - though the Potter hair is still there, he notes, though it is now a burning firey red. Not that it's surprising to him in the least.

A potion, he supposes, that changes a persons gender, down to DNA make-up and hormones, so same sex couple can conceive, will probably focus on ones opposite sexed parent to build from.

At least, he still looks familiar in a way to his own eyes, he decides. Just a lot more feminine. And shorter. And curvier. And with fuller poutier lips.

How odd.

He makes an amused sound, and transfigures his Auror uniform into a pair of black denim shorts and a white flattering t-shirt he'd seen Gin wear, and shrunk his dragon hide boots to feet his smaller feet.

He leaves his neckace, which holds everything of importance within, as it is. Same with his wand holster on his arm. So what? It's not like anyone who doesn't know what it is will go: Ah ha! A real life wizar - witch. I knew it! They exist!

Rather, they'd likely just go: what an odd piece of jewellery...

Really, he thinks and snorts at the thought, as he lengthens his hair, so it reaches past his shoulders and down to the middle of his back, before he nods. That seems perfect. For what though, he has no idea. But perfect it is.

Just like the club he finds himself inside, three and half minutes later - without being asked for ID.

He gets stared at as walks in, naturally - though not-so-naturally, not because of his scar - and one guy even tries to feel him up.

If his elbow flies out at the exact right time though, with a wandless stupify he'd learnt to perfect over the years, attached - well, that's no ones business but his, really, is it.

Sure is lucky though.

And if the offending guy lands hard on the floor, knocking into his sneering rising buddy as he goes, who flails into a large bouncer, then isn't that just lucky too?

So very very lucky he is this day.

"I'll have whatever drink anyone is willing to buy me." He says at the bar, suddenly recalling that he doesn't have any muggle money, never mind Italian - oh, wait, never mind. He finds a stash of money, rolled in a tight band, near his foot. "Here you go." He corrects himself standing back up. "This will fund me for a while, right?"

The bar keep frowns in deep confusion and replies in Italian.

Well, fuck. He forgot about that.

He pauses, thinking, just in time for the music to drop, and for him to hear the man seated next to him, snort derisively. Harry turns to stare at him and blinks.

"Nice scars." He says. "They match mine." And they really really do, Harry thinks.

The guy has scars - ice burns, from the looks of them - all up on his face and neck, probably else where to, just as Harry has burns from robbing Gringotts all over his neck, chest and arms.

He points to them helpfully, and realises the ones on his chest, along with the large scar from the locket, kind of show of his new rounded chest. "I wasn't showing you my boobs. Just the scars." He decides to add.

"I looked at both." The guy answers with a slight sneer, before he scowls fiercely - not at Harry exactly, he knows.

At the reminder of his scars, his brain whispers, even as the Luck also tells him to distact him quickly, before someone gets killed - namely, him.

As it is, he hesitates long enough for the scary guy to forcefully throw his empty shot glass at some simpering fool about to talk to him.

He, like Harry's elbow guy, hits the deck. Hard.

"Fair enough." Harry says, both to the previous comment and the downing of the guy. "I have loads of scars."

How, he questions the Luck, is that supposed to distract anyone from their _own_ scars?

When the guys eyes travel across his body, he thinks he figures it out.

He silently debates whether he shoud care, but decides not to - why should he? Everything will work out, he decides. Including this.

Harry eyes the guy in return. He reckons after he does, that he quite might like guys as well as girls. Or maybe he just likes this one. He seems to _call_ to him, anyway. The Lucky part of hums interestedly as purple reaches out to orange and orange reaches out to purple.

Harry blinks that away, and continues to stare instead.

He has hair as dark as his male hair, Harry observes, with feathers that Luna would love tied in, and eyes that would probably remind him of Voldemort if not for their rather intriguing sanity.

As it is, the _danger_ fibe he gets of him kinda reminds him regardless. But not necessarily in a bad way.

Harry leans back and stares with more intent. How strange. Merlin! Maybe Voldemort had a secret son? He is definitely beautiful enough to be so, he thinks, and definitely deadly enough too.

Well, fuck. "Do you ever have urges to take over the world and destroy it?"

The wild deadly cat besides him blinks and his interested leer becomes narrowed eyes. "...Not the world."

He pauses for a second, before asking, "Why?" with a look that would probably send most running for their lives, with pee dripping down their legs.

Harry, having faced his father, merely shrugs. "You remind of someone I used to know." Your father.

Talk tak talk, the Luck says, but don't say that.

He talks. "He tried to take over the world - twice even - and only stopped because I killed him. Fair trade though, really, because he tried to kill me first. Countless times. And my parents. And also pretty much every one else. It's the aniversary today. I'm getting drunk, in honour."

Red eyed Jr blinks again, the fierce look receeding into a different one, a calculating one, with far different intent.

"Xanxus." The guy finally says, holding out a hand.

"Harry." Harry replies, taking it - and if the Luck seems to preen as he does, well that's just a bit wierd, isn't it? But he doesn't care. Because Xanxus is there, and for whatever reason, all of a sudden, that seems to be the only thing that really matters.

That and the strange bond they seem to have, all of a sudden.

And also getting drunk. That's important, too - to the both of them.

And also having lots of fun for once in the last three years.

Liquid Luck, he believes, is absolutely brilliant.

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Liquid Luck, Harry decides ten hours later, is the worst thing ever. And least of all because his insticts abruptly tell him that it's changed _literally_ everything in his entire life.

It's the worst, he thinks painfully, because he is hungover, and female, and naked, and _sore_ in places he should not be sore.

He groans quietly to himself, rubbing his hands over his eyes, and tries to remember where exactly he is now, before his honned battle skills order him to lash out, straight to the side and immediately.

Harry sighs slightly, but does so. His smaller-than-usual arm shoots out, fist clenched, stupify at the ready, and it noisely meets flesh. A body goes _thump._ His instincts relax, but Harry does not.

He slept with someone, he tells himself firmly. A someone not his ex-girlfriend. A someone called Xanxus, from Italy, who reminds him of a younger and older Voldemort, and who he feels oddly attached - very much _tied_ too, in fact.

Honestly, who even does that? He wonders. What is _wrong_ with him?

Well, a quiet part of his brain says, at least Lyra will be amused and fairly proud of him.

Illegally jumping countries, beating up people and fucking a man after he becomes a woman.

He wimpers and decides, after huddling further into the unknown covers, that just like with the unforgivables he used during the war, this will never be mentioned to anyone.

Of course, Harry being Harry and his luck being- well, _his_ luck, things just weren't that _simple_ , were they?

"VOI!" Harry hears, as he blinks awake again. He fell asleep? "I THOUGHT LEVI KICKED YOU OUT HOURS AGO!"

Levi? He mentally repeats, questioningly. Hours ago? He blinks towards the door and sees a silver haired man, striding forwards. A sleepy yet furious grunt sounds from besides him.

"TRASH!" The familiar - oh, how so very fucking familiar that voice is - snarls out. "I'M TRYING TO FUCKING SLEEP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

There's a second of blissful not at all painful silence, before the silver one catches sight of the person passed out on the floor besides Harry's side of the bed.

"VOI!" The person shouts again, arms being thrown akimbo, a - a _sword_ attached to one. The fuck, Harry thinks worriedly, sitting up and grasping at his thankfully still there wand. "SHITTY BOSS, SHE KNOCKED OUT LEVI!"

And well, if he has to knock that one too, before he can step forward, Harry decides its not at all his fault.

But then again, maybe it is.

But no. He swallows. It's just the Liquid Lucks.

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End file.
